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to a place on the Staff—the Editor-in-Chief. You must ask him for further particulars. You may go now!”
I went, but I can’t tell you exactly what my feelings were. Even today I am unable to tell whether I felt crushed, humiliated, silly, or madder’n a hornet. I searched the premises for Brick, and finally located the gent with Flagstaff pine-cones in his clothes, a thick layer of Arizona tan on his complexion, and on his face a smile that played tag with his ears. I couldn’t smile. He stretched out his hand, but I couldn’t see it. I didn't need to shake hands with anybody—I was shaking all over. To his effusive greetings I spouted: “Well! what about it?” He ignored my question, and began: “Gee, I had the swellest vacation out West! You should have—” I couldn’t stand it any longer, and broke in impatiently: “Looka here, Brick! Can that vacation chatter and tell me what you and that—that censor have framed up on me. I’m through with your darn old paper!” Brick roared—a very foolish proceeding when a man is as mad as I was. What I said could never be printed, but the imperturbable Brick only gave out another roar of laughter. I was puzzled and began to fear that I was getting out the umpty-umpth edition of my masterpiece: THE FINE ART OF MAKING A FOOL OF YOURSELF.
Brick, too, grew serious, cast at me a cross between a curious and a searching look, drew from his pocket a neatly folded piece of paper, and started in: “No, you are not through with the MINERVAL. You signed this contract for a two years’ engagement. We discussed the probability of your being severely criticized, because we knew that few people like to have their corns stepped on. You have fulfilled your part of the contract by stepping only lightly on the corns; the trouble is with the people—they squealed louder than we expected. Don’t be a quitter! Besides, there’s no reason for quitting. You’ve made good. Yours is a thankless job. No matter how well you do your work, nobody is going to graise you. Men have not yet reached that stage of perfection where they'will thank a man for lamming them when they deserve it. The only compliments you can expect are knocks, and the harder the knock the greater the compliment. If no one were to say a word against you, you would be a complete fizzle. Lots have said a lot against you; ergo, you are a big success. Don’t you see that these people have squealed, just because they recognized themselves in what you wrote? If they thought you meant somebody else, they would have laughed. That’s the way of human nature. Cheer up, you boob! Don’t you know that the greatest tribute a writer can receive is to have his work read ? People have been reading you—those who smiled, those who criticized, and those who whined. Your quitting is out of the question. You can’t quit. For every one complaint against you, I have received at least twenty-five requests not to let you resign. The people want you—and you’ve got to stick!”
Brick paused for air, and I broke in: “Then what in the dev— elopment of ideas did that censor mean by telling me I was responsible for all those things ?”
Brick chuckled gleefully. “So, he succeeded in stringing you, did he? Well, that’s a good one on you! He told me that the complaints alleged against you were so utterly silly and insignificant that he would make some charges that would be worth while and, at the same time, as true as the things that others have said. I see you bit hard. . . . Perk up and smile—don’t make a fool of yourself!”

to a place on the Staff—the Editor-in-Chief. You must ask him for further particulars. You may go now!”
I went, but I can’t tell you exactly what my feelings were. Even today I am unable to tell whether I felt crushed, humiliated, silly, or madder’n a hornet. I searched the premises for Brick, and finally located the gent with Flagstaff pine-cones in his clothes, a thick layer of Arizona tan on his complexion, and on his face a smile that played tag with his ears. I couldn’t smile. He stretched out his hand, but I couldn’t see it. I didn't need to shake hands with anybody—I was shaking all over. To his effusive greetings I spouted: “Well! what about it?” He ignored my question, and began: “Gee, I had the swellest vacation out West! You should have—” I couldn’t stand it any longer, and broke in impatiently: “Looka here, Brick! Can that vacation chatter and tell me what you and that—that censor have framed up on me. I’m through with your darn old paper!” Brick roared—a very foolish proceeding when a man is as mad as I was. What I said could never be printed, but the imperturbable Brick only gave out another roar of laughter. I was puzzled and began to fear that I was getting out the umpty-umpth edition of my masterpiece: THE FINE ART OF MAKING A FOOL OF YOURSELF.
Brick, too, grew serious, cast at me a cross between a curious and a searching look, drew from his pocket a neatly folded piece of paper, and started in: “No, you are not through with the MINERVAL. You signed this contract for a two years’ engagement. We discussed the probability of your being severely criticized, because we knew that few people like to have their corns stepped on. You have fulfilled your part of the contract by stepping only lightly on the corns; the trouble is with the people—they squealed louder than we expected. Don’t be a quitter! Besides, there’s no reason for quitting. You’ve made good. Yours is a thankless job. No matter how well you do your work, nobody is going to graise you. Men have not yet reached that stage of perfection where they'will thank a man for lamming them when they deserve it. The only compliments you can expect are knocks, and the harder the knock the greater the compliment. If no one were to say a word against you, you would be a complete fizzle. Lots have said a lot against you; ergo, you are a big success. Don’t you see that these people have squealed, just because they recognized themselves in what you wrote? If they thought you meant somebody else, they would have laughed. That’s the way of human nature. Cheer up, you boob! Don’t you know that the greatest tribute a writer can receive is to have his work read ? People have been reading you—those who smiled, those who criticized, and those who whined. Your quitting is out of the question. You can’t quit. For every one complaint against you, I have received at least twenty-five requests not to let you resign. The people want you—and you’ve got to stick!”
Brick paused for air, and I broke in: “Then what in the dev— elopment of ideas did that censor mean by telling me I was responsible for all those things ?”
Brick chuckled gleefully. “So, he succeeded in stringing you, did he? Well, that’s a good one on you! He told me that the complaints alleged against you were so utterly silly and insignificant that he would make some charges that would be worth while and, at the same time, as true as the things that others have said. I see you bit hard. . . . Perk up and smile—don’t make a fool of yourself!”